“We don’t have time,” Ramey said firmly. “And we don’t leave our people behind.”
Without another word, Ramey led off on point. Jerry and Phillips followed, carrying Lapointe, then Fazel with his solemn burden, and Shirin walking at his side.
17
AFTERMATH
They’d been walking for about half an hour when Jerry saw what had to be a convoy. Even from three hundred meters south of the highway, he could hear the diesel engines, and instead of one or two sets of headlights, he counted at least four or five, traveling as a group, and heading west, toward where they’d fought the battle. “If those trucks are carrying troops, that’s at least a company,” Phillips observed softly.
They’d frozen, of course, taking a knee and waiting for the lights to pass. There was enough vegetation along this part of the coast so that they were usually able to find cover when they needed it. The gulf lay just a hundred meters to the right. Ramey kept them closer to the water, where the brush was thicker and would hide their tracks.
Jerry was grateful for the frequent stops, even if it meant having to stand up again after the traffic had passed. Sometimes, Ramey would let them rest for an extra minute, using the time to check Lapointe or adjust someone’s load.
They were all weighed down. Jerry carried Fazel’s pack, Philips carried Lapointe’s, in addition to both of them carrying the stretcher. Fazel of course carried Yousef, and now Shirin had a hand on his arm to help steady her. Even she did her part, carrying Harry’s rifle slung over her shoulder.
The SEALs were absolutely silent as they withdrew from the scene of the skirmish. Besides the occasional snap of brush, or the sound of tottering rock, the group made little noise. Ramey led the way, but also would scout ahead, or to the side, or fall back and watch for any pursuit. For every step Jerry and the others took, Ramey took three.
The platoon leader pushed them hard, not just because they had to clear the area of the battle, but because they had to reach a good layup position before dawn. Their best option, a grove of trees close to the airfield, lay on the far side of the small village of Mollu, a little over four miles from where they’d had the fight. It was hard to estimate their progress, and the pauses didn’t help. Jerry knew they were moving more slowly than they had two nights ago, but Ramey insisted they’d be there before dawn.
In another hour, they’d have to start angling south, toward the gulf, so they could cross behind the southern portion of Mollu along the beach. The nearest structure was over 150 meters away, but Ramey wanted them to traverse the one kilometer behind the village as fast and as quietly as possible.
They met at the town’s hospital, which was also a morgue. Sattari was still there, bleary-eyed, and waiting for the final autopsy report. Still numb after the death of his partner, he greeted Rahim with little more than a handshake.
Rahim did not pretend to be sad at Omid’s passing. The man was an ass, and by early accounts, had managed to engineer his own demise. But Rahim did honestly tell Sattari, “I’m sorry you’ve lost your partner. We will find out who did this and punish them for their crime.”
“And you need to know what I’ve found out,” Sattari replied mournfully. “Forensics went over the area as best they could in the dark. They found a position where the enemy had hidden while Akbari and Naseri went into town. There are signs of several men wearing an unfamiliar-patterned boot, as well as one man wearing Iranian- issue boots and a woman’s civilian shoes. They picked up their spent cartridges and there was no sign of other trash, so we can assume they are professional solders with good field skills.”
Sattari paused for a moment, then reported. “That’s all we could find out in the dark. Their forensics man will be back out there tomorrow morning at dawn.”
“One man?” Rahim asked. “Let’s get him some help.”
“Yes, sir,” Sattari answered tiredly. “I’ll call the police captain.”
“No, I’ll have Dahghan make the call.” The young agent behind Rahim nodded and hurried off.
“Are you officially taking over this case, Major?”
“This has always been my case, Agent Sattari. Omid didn’t want to work with me. He wanted to humble me by making an arrest himself. I don’t know if he deserved to die for that, but it was obviously not the correct approach. Will you work with me to catch these traitors and whoever’s helping them?”
Sattari nodded. “For Omid’s sake, if no other. I don’t know their exact crimes, but now they’ve killed my partner and four Basij soldiers.”
Dahghan came back. “The police commander says he will get more forensics people from the surrounding towns. I also have the coroner’s report.” He offered it to them. Sattari took it, but Rahim said tiredly, “Just tell me what it says.”
“All five died of gunshot wounds.” He held up a small plastic bag. “This is one of the bullets he recovered. It’s 7.62mm, but not from an Iranian-issue rifle. Without seeing one of the cartridges he can’t be certain, but he thinks it a NATO-standard round. And ballistics indicates at least three different rifles, although some of the bullets were too damaged to be properly examined.”
“That’s good work, Karim.” The information was useful, even if it was bad news. At least three professional soldiers were with the two traitors. It reminded him of that old joke about lion hunting: It wasn’t hard to catch one; the problem was, what did you do after that?
Sattari’s cell phone had beeped during Dahghan’s report, and now he checked the display. “It’s the Bandar Abbas office,” he remarked as he called back. Any call from them was VEVAK business, and at this hour, had to be important.
His expression had been serious, but as he listened, it changed to shock. After only a few moments, he said hurriedly, “Wait. Just tell Major Rahim. He won’t believe me.”
He handed the phone to Rahim, who looked to see if anyone was nearby, then pressed the speakerphone button. “This is Rahim,” he said quickly.
“I’ve received a radio message from Colonel Yavari. He commands the Pasdaran garrison at Bandar Lengeh. He says that he received word of a battle at one of the roadblocks earlier this evening on Highway 96, near Mollu. Proceeding to the roadblock, he found many of his men killed, along with a burned-out army truck that matches the description of the one you are looking for.”
Rahim felt his spirits rise, but when the speaker didn’t continue, they dropped just as quickly “Let me guess. There was no sign of other bodies — foreigners, or a woman’s?”
“I’m sorry, sir, that was the whole message.”
“Where is Mollu?” Rahim asked Sattari.
“It’s a very small town. Ahh, I’d have to look at a map. No more than eighty kilometers,” he stammered.
“And the roadblock is closer than that,” Rahim said. “Come on. We can be there in an hour.” He looked at Sattari’s expression. “Dahghan will drive.”
It was sixty-eight kilometers by the odometer when they were waved to a stop by a pair of heavily armed soldiers. Rahim’s uniform and identity card quickly got them past the barrier, and directions to the colonel’s command post.
Colonel Yavari was young for a colonel, almost too young for a lieutenant colonel. His hair and beard were jet-black and cut short. His headquarters tent was set up a short distance from the “battlefield,” where there was
